


Playing Doctor

by kbloodstone



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: ConHayth, Family Feels, Got more kink as I moved forward, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oops, Parent/Child Incest, Started rated T, because doctor games always seem to end on a kinky note, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbloodstone/pseuds/kbloodstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor gets hurt, needs help. Daddy saves his bacon….and drools over his bacon….</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No where to go

“Good Lord!” Haytham gasped. He jumped up from his bedroom desk to rush to the window, where a battered Connor was desperately struggling to climb through. He heaved himself through the window, wincing in pain. Bruised and bleeding, he clutched at his side. Through Connor's fingers, Haytham could see a wide gash where a blade had found flesh.

Haytham reached the window just in time to catch him, tumbling into the room, before he hit the ground.

“What in the devil?” he was on his knees holding his son, who's eyes were already starting to close from exhaustion. “What happened?”

Weak and breathing heavily, Connor closed his eyes, too embarrassed to look up into his father's face. To be seen in this state, and worse to need help, was humiliating. The last thing he needed right now, was to have his father patronize him again.

But he didn't have anywhere else to go........

Haytham however, was frowning with concern, his eyes doing a quick sweep over his battered body, trying to assess if there were more wounds he couldn’t see.

“Guards.”

Haytham rolled his eyes.

“My son, ever the master storyteller.”

Connor's eyes sprang open. This was a mistake. He should have known better then to expect any sort of sympathy. He clumsily shoved against his father, trying to crawl painfully back onto his feet.

But Haytham was faster, gabbing the collar of Connor's robes with one hand, and his front with the other, he easily brought Connor back down with one swift jerk. Connor came down into his father's lap with a strangled cry of pain.

“Let me go!”

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Away! This was a mistake.” he struggled against his father's grasp. “Now let me go!”

His body was on fire from the pain of his wounds and he twisted against his fathers grip. Raising one leg ever so slightly he prepared himself to knee Haytham in the stomach and get away. About to make his move, he heard the clic of steel and suddenly froze. Haytham's hidden blade pressed dangerously at his throat.

He looked up into his fathers face, his heart beating fast and his eyes wide with surprise. On his back and already weak, would his father just finish him?

Haytham's face was cold and expressionless.

“Don't tempt me boy.” Removing his blade from his son's flesh he slid Connor off his lap and set him on the ground. “Keep still. Do you understand?”

Connor eyed him wearily, but stayed motionless. Lying on the ground, he propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand still clutching his side. It was now very clear to him that he was at much more of a disadvantage then he had once believed. He knew he was weak, but he must have lost more blood then he thought, if Haytham was able to overpower him so easily. He hadn't even seen the blade coming at his throat, let alone been able to deflect it.

Haytham was now standing and walking towards the open window to close it. The cold winter air fluttering through the curtains, was quickly cooling down the room and Connor could feel a chill creeping down his spine. A shiver ran though his body and Haytham eyed him carefully.

“You may believe that I am incapable of caring for you, but I assure you, my boy, that I am more than capable and willing to tend to your wounds.” He walked across the room to the door and Connor heard the click of a lock. From the floor, he did a quick sweep of the room: no more exits. He was trapped. Haytham turned to face him. “All that is needed from you, is your co-operation.” A small smile crept onto his lips. “However, I believe I have also proven, that I am also quite capable, without it.”

At his words, Connor remembered the cold steel of the hidden blade against his neck and another shiver ran through him. Unsure, Connor kept his silence.

“Come on. Get up and come over here.”

Haytham walked over to his desk and began clearing the top of it, pushing his various papers, quills and books into different drawers. He stepped back and pointed at the desk.

“Have a seat.”

Connor stared at his father, but still said nothing.

Haytham rolled his eyes. “Alright.” He heaved a sigh and removed his hidden blade. “Better?”

But Connor still didn’t move.

Growing impatient, Haytham's tone grew sharper, “Please do not waste my time. You've come to me for help. Now get on with it!”

Connor's cheeks flushed. In truth, he couldn’t get up. His body, weak from both battle and injuries, had finally given up on him. He could barely hold up his own weight, propped up on one arm. When he finally spoke, his voice was small and full of shame.

“I can't.” His eyes darted to the ground. “I need help.”

Suddenly understanding what was happening, Haytham's eyes widened momentarily, before he recovered himself. It had been clear his son was not at his best, but knowing his inherited sense of pride, for him to ask for help simply getting off the floor, he must be far worse off then he thought. He was clearly going to have to keep a close eye on him, if he was this weak.

“Of course!” He turned back to the desk, “just a moment.”

Connor watched curiously, as his father pushed the desk over to move it against the wall before coming over to crouch next to him.

Pulling Connor's arm over his shoulders, he slowly and gently lifted him off the floor.

“Ah!” Connor winced as he struggled to his feet, still clutching his side. The flush on his cheeks was now creeping across his face and down his neck, as he pushed himself to the table, leaning on Haytham for support.

Once there, Connor slid off his father's shoulder and onto the desk and it suddenly dawned on him, why he had moved the desk towards the wall at the last minute. It was so simple, but such a loving gesture, that Connor was left momentarily dazed. Leaning against the wall, meant that even though his body could no longer support him, he could at least sit up straight and hold himself up with dignity. It was of course, something that his aristocratic father would have thought of, but still, to extend the gesture to Connor.....

Connor watched Haytham from the corner of his eye, his fingers playing absent mindedly with the edge of the rich mahogany desk. He hated to admit it, but the possibility that Haytham actually cared about his well being, and maybe was even worrying about him, felt good. A warmth seemed to wash over him as he looked around the room, his eyes passing over the roaring hearth to his left with two Royal Blue velvet wingback chairs by it side, to the rows of windows in front of him, and then to the bed on his right, with it's crimson covers.

Haytham meanwhile, had left Connor to settle himself in, and was now walking towards the door. He had picked up the sound of movement in the hall way, and wanted to catch to house keeper in time. She was so startled when he suddenly opened the door as she passed, that she almost dropped the washing she was carrying.

“Oh!” she cried, rearranging the pile of sheets.

“My deepest apologies, Miss. White,” he said bowing his head slightly, “I'm tending to a wounded soldier, would you please bring me some alcohol, some dressings and - ”

“And some warm water to clean it. Yes sir.” she continued for him. She had always been sharp as a tack and in this instant he was quite thankful for it.

“Excellent.” He continued, “and could you also begin preparing a bath? I'll need it in my room.”

“Of course sir.” She nodded. Craning her head slightly to see who this privileged soldier might be. “Anything else?”

Noticing her curiosity, he now cursed her swiftness. Bowing his head slightly, he began closing the door.

“No, that will be all. Thank you Miss. White.”

As he locked it behind him, he turned his attention back to Connor, who by now, was craning his head over curiously to see what his father was doing. Hiding a smile, Haytham strode towards him.

“Are you still alright?” he asked.

Connor looked anything but alright. His eyes were half open and the blood had drained from his face.

“I'm fine,” he said. “My side hurts.”

Haytham's eyes traveled to the gash on his side. The wound was still open and a trickle of blood was still coming out, but it seemed the worst of it had passed. Once bright with wetness, the edges were now dark and crusted with dried blood.

“Come on, we need to clean this up.” He gestured towards the gash on his side, “as well as everything else. Take off your robes. I need to see the damage.”

 

 

 


	2. Surrender

Connor obeyed and began slowly unbuckling and unbuttoning his many layers of weapons and clothing to expose his chest and waist. Progress was slow, and at many points he needed help. Meanwhile, Haytham was carefully watching and joining in when needed, removing the need for Connor to actually ask for the help. With his chest bare, but his dignity intact, Connor was still clutching his side when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.” Haytham called out without looking, his eyes still drifting over the multiple wounds on Connor's torso.

Mrs. White came quickly shuffling in, holding a tray with a tall bottle, a steaming bowl and a pile of bandages. Behind her, came two men carefully rolling in a steel tub, also steaming, and pushing it towards the fireplace.

The men left the bath by the hearth to keep it warm and left the room, while Miss. White put the tray to rest on the seat of a chair near the desk.

“Will that be all sir?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you Miss. White,” he said, “I'll ring if we find ourselves in need of anything.”

“Very well sir,” she said bowing her head as she left, stealing a curious glance in Connor's direction. “I await your call.”

Connor, a thin trail of blood trickling through his fingers, watched all this in disbelief. As the door closed, he turned to his father.

“Is she a slave?” he asked. It was so typical of his Templar father to hold human beings as slaves. It disgusted him.

“Good gracious no! She's my housekeeper,” he answered and then clarified, “she's paid for her work in coin and lodging. Now, if I remember correctly I had instructed you to take off your clothes.”

All thoughts of slavery were pushed out of Connor's mind, as he looked up at his father confused. His chest was bare, and his robes were tucked around his hips. What more could he want?

Haytham's eyes drifted from Connor's chest down to his legs, and raised an eyebrow.

A sense of dread consumed the boy as he suddenly understood. He gaped up into his father's face.

“Don't look at me like that,” Haytham said cooly. “You're bleeding all over, that means I need you...” a smile was now playing on his lips, “ _exposed_ all over.”

He paused a moment, eyeing him, before asking in mock concern, “do you need help again?”

Connor frowned, that familiar sense of insecurity creeping in.

“No.”

“Excellent.”

“I mean, no I will not undress, there is no need!”

“Now.”

“NO!”

Haytham was upon him, before he could even hope to block. Shoved against the wall, he screamed in agony and shock, as his body slammed against it, shots of pain exploding from the gash on his side. Taking advantage of Connor's momentary daze, Haytham pulled both of his arms over his head, and pulled him down to lie on the table on his back. Holding his hands with one hand, he pulled at Connor's red sash around his waist and pinned his hands to the back corner of the table, making sure to fasten the sash, at the top of the table leg, under the table, so Connor couldn't access the knot.

Connor tried to keep himself steady as pain shot up and down his spine. He wasn't sure how much more he could take of this. He bit down on his lip to stop himself from whimpering, but a soft moan still escaped him.

“Mercy,” he whispered. The word had escaped his mouth before he could stop it. “Please.”

His father froze at his words and looked down at the trembling bulk under him. He couldn’t help but feel a rush of heat to his groin, hearing his son submit, followed by shame for thinking such thoughts. This was his son. His wounded son for heaven's sake. He made an effort to push such ideas out of his head, and tasked himself instead to focus on the issue at hand.

He moved to the other end of the table and reached for Connor's breeches. With the last of his strength, Connor gave a strangled cry and pulled up his legs to kick him away, but it wasn't enough. With far too much ease, Haytham caught both legs and held them down against the table.

“Easy boy, I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help.” he growled. “Let me! Or will I have to tie these down too?”

It was a question.

He had a choice and Haytham was watching him closely, waiting for a response.

Connor began to tremble again. Without a doubt, he had absolutely no interest in having his legs trapped as helplessly as his arms, but having to surrender to his own father undressing him was a heavy price. His thoughts were interrupted though, as he felt his father move in closer.

“It's alright son. Trust me.” Haytham's voice had descended into a soft purr, “I'm trying to help you. You're still loosing blood. We need to tend to your wounds.”

He carefully reached again for the fastening on Connor's breeches, all the while his eyes fixed on his son's face.

“It's alright. Rest.”

His fingers found the fastenings, and nimbly began untying them. Connor watched attentively, focusing all his energy on staying calm.

“I'll take care of you.”

He began slowly pulling off his breeches. Connor closed his eyes. Watching wasn't helping. He focused instead on his father's voice.

“You're safe.”

 


	3. Because you're a Kenway….

Connor's eyes were still clenched closed as Haytham stepped over his crumpled up breeches on the floor and moved towards the tray. Pulling the chair closer to the edge of the desk, he set the tray on the ground and took at seat.

“You can open your eyes now, I wont be taking anything else off,” he said, a smile playing at his lips once more before mumbling under his breath. “Not that there's much left.”

Wracked with tension, Connor opened his eyes to watch his father lean down on the chair to soak a cloth in the steaming bowl.

In any other circumstance the cold winter chill in the air would have covered his exposed body in goosebumps, but with so much adrenaline coursing through his veins, he was closer to overheating. Straining at his own sash binding his wrists, he looked down at himself, in disbelief. All that was left was his Mother's bone necklace. Everything else he owned, was on the floor.

A searing pain brought him back to reality as Haytham pressed the hot cloth to the gash on his side.

“AH!” his eyes bulged in pain. “Stop!”

“I'm just going to be very honest with you,” Haytham began without looking up, “you make this exceedingly difficult. You do understand that, don't you?”

Still wincing in pain, Connor glanced up at his wrists and began pulling violently at the sash.

“It hurts!” he managed to say through gritted teeth.

Haytham rinsed out the cloth and applied it again, causing another wave of pain for Connor.

“Ah!” the boy cried out, burying his face into his shoulder. “You're too rough!”

Staying focused, Haytham rinsed the cloth once more.

“Actually,” he answered without bothering to fake concern, “what is causing you pain, is less my pressure, which may I point out is exceedingly gentle, but more the severity of your wounds.”

He pulled back the cloth and examined the boy's side. Most of the dried bits were gone, and now exposed, the gash did not look as dangerously deep as it had before. Connor would still have to stay for a while to allow the wound to fully heal, but he decided to break that news to him at a later point.

He dipped the cloth once more into the steaming water and looked up into Connor's eyes. Connor stared back defiantly.

“Now, if you will please permit me to wash your wounds in peace,” he said pulling himself up to move on to the next cut, “as at this point, cleaning your wounds and giving them opportunity to heal, may be your best bet at truly ridding yourself of this ache.”

He began working on the rest of Connor's cuts and bruises, while his patient continued to wince and tug at his bindings.

“Anyway, you're a Kenway. You can handle a bit of pain.” But as he drifted the cloth along Connor's chest and torso, he found himself using much less pressure, despite himself.

Connor, suddenly stopped his protestations. Those last words had stirred something deep within him and he gazed at his father, trying to make out the expression on his face, but Haytham had already turned away and was now working down his legs.

Intentionally keeping his face away from the boy, he gently drifted the steaming cloth down Connor's legs. He took his time, slowly washing along his thighs, and couldn't help but smile at the sight of goosebumps on his dark skin as he worked his way down his inner thigh. Not wanting Connor to realize just how much his father really was enjoying this, he quickly moved on to continue down his legs, finishing up at his calfs, where he found another sizeable cut. The boy really had taken quite a beating.

Haytham straightened himself up and reached for the bottle of alcohol.

“Alright, were almost done.” He took a fresh cloth and began pouring the contents of the bottle over it, taking his time to make sure it was completely saturated. “Now just to disinfect, and then into the bath with you.”

Connor frowned as he watched his father approach him with the dripping cloth. He cast his mind to the multiple cuts over his body and shivered. He wasn't looking forward to this. This was going to hurt.

Haytham seemed to be thinking something along the same lines, because he hesitated just as he was about to start, his brow furrowed. Noticing him falter, Connor looked up into his eyes, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

“NOW you hesitate?” He shook his head, still staring at his father in disbelief. “Of all things... You've tied me to table, undressed me, rubbed a burning cloth all over me and NOW you have second thoughts?!”

Haytham's face instantly went from concern, to annoyance as he looked down at the insolent child.

“Hardly.” His voice was calm but there was a clear note of irritation in it. “I was merely wondering if you had the self control to be released from you bindings for this part.”

“Yes please.”

“Never mind.” Haytham leaned in to start.

Connor pulled on the sash. “Haytham!”

“Stop struggling, it makes it much more difficult if you're moving around.”

“Haytham! Please!”

Just about to press the new cloth to a cut on his ankle, Haytham stopped. He eyed Connor carefully.

“You understand, that though this will hurt, it is essential to your healing?”

Connor tugged lightly on his bindings.

“Yes, of course.” He stopped struggling and frowned at his father. “And if I hadn't needed to come to you for aid in the first place, it would be the only thing I would be doing. I have no need for these washings and baths. A simple disinfecting is enough.”

Haytham looked down at his son's dirt stained robes on the ground which reeked of sweat and blood. Not needing a wash was a matter of opinion, he thought to himself, but he chose not to pursue the matter.

“Then if I am to understand correctly,” he said carefully. “Even if I release you, I should have no cause for worry, concerning your potential rebellion?”

Connor rolled his eyes.

“No. I will not 'rebel' against you disinfecting my wounds.”

“Excellent.” He began to pace along desk. “Then am I also to assume, that if I release you, I will also have your full co-operation throughout the process of cleaning your wounds, including your bathing after disinfection?”

Connor heaved a sigh.

“Yes. You will have my full co-operation throughout the process including – Wait! What?”

“Yes?”

“What does bathing have to do with this?”

“Is it a yes or a no?” Haytham's tone was sharp and unforgiving.

The air was tense, as father and son glared at each other, both refusing to give quarter. Haytham standing upright in front of his son, one hand casually behind his back, the other holding up the saturated cloth as a warning. Connor, still stretched across the table on his back, naked, both arms tied above his head, trying to display as much dignity as he could, while holding his ground against his father. The moment snapped however, when Haytham finally gave a shrug and began advancing towards Connor's ankle again. Instantly, Connor's eyes dropped down and his ears took on a vibrant pink.

“Wait.”

Haytham stopped in his tracks and turned to face him, cocking his head slightly to the side in interest.

“Alright.” The boy kept his eyes averted as the blush crept up his face. “I'll take the bath. Just, please...untie me.”

“A wise choice,” Haytham replied as he moved to the other end of the table and began undoing the sash at Connor's head.

With a sigh of relief, Connor pulled his arms to his chest, massaging his wrists, and tried to sit upright. Instantly, his head began to spin and a searing pain crocheted through his body. His eyes fluttered as he whimpered, collapsing back onto the table.

Haytham quickly set the cloth aside and rushed to his son's side.

“Easy boy!” He put his hand on Connor's cheek. “Are you alright?”

Connor closed his eyes. His voice was suddenly small and far away.

“W-what happened?”

“You're too weak to sit up right now.” He reached for the cloth once more. “Stay put. Rest. I can take care of this.”

Leaning over his son, Haytham pressed the cloth to a cut on Connor's shoulder. The result was instant.

“Ah!” Connor's eyes flashed open. His vision began to spin again. Closing his eyes, he focused instead on his breathing, trying not to faint.

“Shh.” He moved on to another spot, sending another wave of pain into the boy. “It's alright. Not too much longer.”

With Connor wincing in pain, and his body shuddering each time he moved to a new place, Haytham slowly made his way along his bronze skin, only kissing scratches with the cloth, but taking his time on the deeper cuts, making sure they were alright. Soon enough, all that was left was the gash on his side.

“Last one.” Haytham said in a low voice as he examined his son. The wide gash was too deep for him to simply press a wet cloth against. He was going to have to turn Connor onto his side and then pour the remnants of the bottle directly into the wound.

The boy had already passed the point of exhaustion and was now slipping in and out of consciousness. Watching his son's heaving chest, he understood this could go either one of two ways. Either Connor would have a burst of adrenaline that may hopefully carry him into his bath, or he would simply lose consciousness and Haytham would be left to try and devise what to do with the boy's hulking weight.

He considered getting some smelling salts from Miss. White, in case the latter were to occur, however he realized he would find himself hard pressed to explain why he needed them in the first place. She would most probably wonder what he was doing to this poor soldier.

He decided instead to chance it and pushed his son onto his side. Feeling weak and dazed, Connor obliged, letting his father move him into position.

Taking the bottle in one hand and the cloth in the other, he stood over his son for a moment, hesitating once more, before finding his resolve and pouring what was left of the bottle into the gash on his side.

Connor screamed.

Immediately dropping the empty bottle, Haytham wrapped his hand around the boy's mouth silencing him. With one hand pressing the cloth over his son's side and the other wrapped around his head and pressing into his face, Haytham held his son against him, stopping him from thrashing about and making noise.

Connor's body shuddered against his father, as tears of pain streamed down his face. For what seemed like an eternity, the two stayed in this position. One struggling in agony trying to escape, the other wrapping his arms around him like tentacles trying to hold him down.

Finally, Connor slowly began to struggle less and less, and in turn, Haytham relaxed his grip, removing his hand from his son's face.

“You're trying to kill me!” Connor exclaimed, turning his head to look behind him at his father. The pain had subsided slightly, but was still present.

Haytham stared down disbelievingly at his son, who apparently was now wide awake again. Clearly his body had gifted him a fresh burst of adrenaline. He made a mental note to take advantage of this fact as fast as he could. He wasn't sure how long it would last.

“There's no 'trying'.” He said, reaching out his hand to help his son up from the table. “Don't fool yourself. When I decide to kill you, I will.”

Connor slowly heaved himself up, leaning on his father for support, while eyeing him carefully to see if that last comment had been serious, but Haytham's face was inscrutable.

Seated on the edge of the table, he steadied himself and looked up at his father standing in front of him.

“Now if I remember correctly,” Haytham said, gesturing to the porcelain tub in front of the fire, “you have a promise to keep.”

Connor slowly turned his head to the hearth, then back at his father, before nodding silently and reaching out for his help in getting up. Wrapping one arm around Haytham's shoulder, while still holding the cloth against his side with the other, he struggled to his feet, and the two of them slowly began to hobble to the bath.

 


	4. Overwhelmed

“Easy does it.”

Using his father for support, Connor was slowly allowing himself to be lowered into the bath.

“It's hot.” He said simply, while frowning into the water.

Making sure Connor was comfortably seated in the porcelain tub, Haytham reached behind himself and pulled up a small leather footstool.

“Yes, that's the general idea of keeping it by the fire,” he said flatly, pulling a side table with toiletries closer to the tub.

He checked his arsenal or sponges, soap and, as a treat, lavender bath oil. The worst part was over, now was time for _his_ fun. A sly smile crept onto his face as he reached for the lavender oil.

Haytham planned to take his time and enjoy this.

Connor meanwhile, oblivious to his father's musings beside him, stared into the water. It had almost been too hot going into the bath, the shock of heat speeding through his body and leaving goosebumps of stinging pain along his skin. But now that he was submerged in it, the heat was engulfing him, leaving him feeling safe and calm, as he watched the steam waft up from the surface of the water. Only his side still hurt, having been particularly sensitive to the scorch of the hot water, but even it, was slowly dulling down. He hated to admit it, but he was enjoying this.

It was at that moment that he noticed a hand pouring a bottle of a strange smelling liquid into the water. He quickly sat up straight, bracing himself again.

“What is that? What are you doing?”

Connor gripped the edges of the tub, preparing himself to jump out, as he watched Haytham pour what seemed like some sort of oil all around him. Before he knew it, the air was thick with the scent of lavender, and Connor was breathing in this new strange smell, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed by it all.

“English Lavender oil.” Haytham hid his smile as he walked behind Connor to set the bottle back onto the table. “It's good for you.”

Connor looked up at his father, a grimace on his face from the overwhelming scent around him.

“I can't breathe.” He said, trying to shift away from the oil floating on the surface, but there was too much of it, and all he managed to accomplish was to get some on himself. “How can this be good for me?”

“It's a disinfectant first of all, and also it has a calming effect on one's disposition.” Haytham was now reaching for the bar of soap, as he eyed Connor, who was still nervously trying to dodge the floating oil. “So breathe deep. You look like you could use a bit of that.”

Connor shot his father a murderous look, mumbling something in Kanien'kaha under his breath.

Haytham's smile simply grew wider as he approached Connor with a washcloth covered in suds.

Connor's arms quickly came up to block himself.

“I can do that myself!”

Undaunted, Haytham easily pushed his son's arms away and repositioned himself behind the boy for better access.

“Good. Then take that bar of soap and make good use of it.” He casually nodded towards the toiletries, while gently pushing Connor forward to expose his back, steadying the boy when he tried to turn in protest. “I may have cleaned your wounds, but the rest of you is equally in desperate need of a good scrubbing.”

Connor tried once more to turn around as his father washed the sweat and grime off his back, but Haytham's grip was strong and steady.

“Now look up for me.” Haytham's hand drifted under Connor's chin to hold it gently. “There's something on your chin.”

“Stop!” Connor struggled out of his father's hand, shaking his head like a dog.

Haytham simply grabbed his son's chin once more, but this time with a firmer grip, and forced it upwards.

“Shh. Sounds akin to rebellion to me.” He was now smiling down into Connor's face, but it wasn't a smile of tenderness, but rather of power. Like a cat smiles down at it's captured prey, knowing the games are only just beginning. “Remember your promise,” he said with a note of caution.

The look on his father's face surprised Connor and a suffocating feeling of being trapped, enhanced by the thick scent of lavender surrounding him, began to creep into his being. Carefully silent, the boy eyed his father.

Haytham handed the bar of soap to Connor, raising his eyebrows.

“Go on,” he said in a mock gentleman's tone. “Get to work.”

Eyes still fixed carefully on his father, Connor took the bar of soap from his hand, but didn't move.

Haytham's smile widened again, bearing teeth this time.

“I really do not mind doing it for you,” he said shaking his head innocently.

Connor gave his father a reproachful look, which Haytham answered with a playful cock of his head. A clear reminder to the boy: trapped.

Taking one last long glance in his father's direction, Connor heaved a sigh and turned again to face the hearth, busying himself with a soapy sponge and leaving his back exposed to Haytham.

The following moments were quiet but tense as Connor washed himself down angrily, the soapy water leaving a slight burn in his open wounds. Inwardly however, he thanked the burn, as it distracted him from his maddeningly irritating father, who on his end, was very much enjoying himself. Humming gently under his breath, Haytham was happily drifting the washcloth over his son's chiseled body. Slowly going over the ripples of his back, he took his time examining the many scars and bruises decorating the perfectly bronze skin. He made sure to avoid the boy's cuts as to not cause any discomfort, and used only the slightest pressure over his back and shoulders, assuring the experience was as pleasurable for Connor as it was for his father.

The effect, on Connor was instant, but he did his utmost to hide it. His father's gentle touch was sending chills of pleasure up and down his spine. He would feel the hot washcloth slowly be pulled up his spine and then lovingly rubbed over his shoulders. It would take every ounce of his being to stop the delicious heat on his cold shoulders from descending back down his spine and directly into his groin. He once again thanked the soapy water, for hiding his now flagging erection, and used it again to his advantage, furiously scrubbing his own body clean, making sure he was rough enough to cause enough pain to distract himself from the luxurious touch along his spine.

“Alright! I'm done!” he said dropping the sponge into the water and quickly gripping the edge of the tub to try and get out, but a forceful push put him back in place.

“Stay put.” He heard his father's voice behind him, walking away. “Let me get you a drying cloth. I do not have any need for your mess of bathwater on my floors.”

Connor settled himself back into the tub, but kept his hands clenched to the edges, ready to leap out.

When his father returned from across the room, he was holding a large cloth and handed it to Connor, who took it eagerly and began to get up.

“I said wait.” A sharp tone of caution now ringing clear in Haytham's voice. He needed to set a precedent. It was paramount that the boy knew his insolence would not be tolerated here.

Although he wore a look of defiance, Connor acquiesced and slowly lowered himself back into the tub.

Giving his son one last long look of warning, which Connor silently held in return, Haytham turned away to pull the stool he had been previously using, and brought it in front of the fire.

“Here. You can come out now.” He said gesturing at the stool. “Have a seat on this while you dry. The fire will keep you warm.”

He walked past the tub and toward the door to the hallway.

“Mind you do not slip getting out. The oils do wonders for the skin, but admittedly they do make it rather complicated getting out.” At this a small smile crept back onto his face, but he turned away to hide it. “I will return with a quick nightcap, and then off to bed.”

And before Connor could reply, Haytham had left, locking him inside, as he listened to his father's footsteps fade away.

 

 


	5. Inner Musings

Still holding the cloth over the edge of the tub to keep it dry, Connor relaxed and stared into the fire. Now alone in the room, he privately allowed himself to enjoy the moment. Sitting in a hot bath, in the warm bedroom, surrounded by foreign yet beautiful, european comforts. Feeling more relaxed then when he had first came in through the window, he took another moment to survey the room. He had always seen Haytham's New York Villa from the road, but had never been inside. Now, from within the master bedroom, he wondered if all the rooms were as rich as this one.

It wasn't that Achilles' home was small or poor in comparison, but rather that, compared to the space he was in, the Davenport Homestead seemed tired...almost lonely.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the Villa was different somehow. There was a certain warmth and cleanliness that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. Was it the space itself? Or was it secretly the fact that it was his father's space? Some sort of instinctual need for paternal comfort? He wasn't sure.

He listened to the roar of the fire and settled himself a little deeper into the bath. He still had some time before Haytham would be back. Might as well take advantage of it.

His eyes scanned the mahogany bookshelves on either side of the mantle. So many books. He was still slow at reading, and even slower at writing. It would take him years to get though through all of those pages. He sat up and looked closer, straining his eyes to read them, but he couldn't make out the words. Confused, he leaned over the edge of the tub and reached for one of the smaller books. He could admit his reading abilities were far from perfect, but he rarely had this much trouble. The illegible jumble of letters, reminded him of when he had first started reading with Achilles. He couldn't understand a word. He opened it to a random page and began scanning. What was happening? Why couldn't he make out any of the words? Was this another effect of that 'lavender'?

He put the book down on the stool in front of the fire and dropped the drying cloth onto the crimson carpet beneath him. Leaning back into the bath, he rubbed the bridge between his eyes wearily, and sank back into the steaming water. What was happening? Was he really that ill?

Tiredness was now creeping back into his body. That familiar exhaustion that had previously been crushing him before the bath, was now surging forward again. He was suddenly aware of how much his body ached from the day's events, and he found himself once again staring into the roaring hearth. He listened to the crackling of the logs and closed his eyes. The hot bath felt so good on his tired limbs. For a fleeting moment, he imagined this was his own room. That this warmth was his. That this life was his.

He lay like this in the tub for a while. The crackling of the fire, drowned out the late november wind which was now beginning to howl with the storm. Winter was early and aggressive this year, but from within Haytham's bedroom, you would have never known. Connor heaved a sigh, keeping his eyes shut, as he began to daydream of how the rest of the villa must look.

Before he knew it, he was sound asleep.

 

 

Haytham walked into the empty kitchen, holding a small oil lamp to light his way. It was well past 1 o’clock in the morning at this point, and his cook, as well as most of his servants, had already retired to their quarters.

Just as well. He hadn't quite decided yet how he would explain his new keep, to the house staff.

Lifting the lamp above his head, he began to rummage through the shelves. Some bread, a piece of hard cheese and some cured sausage...That should be enough.

Putting everything on a plain wooden tray, he left the room and headed back towards the staircase. Having second thoughts however, he stopped in the middle and turned around to go back down, making his way into the dining room instead. Moving along the wide dinner table, he reached the liquor cabinet and knelt down to pull out a bottle of brandy.

Although Haytham knew the boy was currently only functioning on an adrenaline rush, and was sure to crash at any moment, he preferred to guarantee it happened sooner rather then later. He guiltily admitted it was more for himself than for Connor. He was exhausted at this point and needed sleep. He was not as comfortable with these sorts of long nights as he once was and was quite happy to call it an evening. He took another look at the bottle, before standing up again, and grabbed two glasses.

_The brandy will be good for him. It will take the edge off the pain_. He reasoned to himself as he slowly made his way back up the stairs. _It will assure he gets a full night's rest_.

Reaching the landing, he quickly glanced out the window before unlocking the door to the bedroom. Terribly irregular weather they were having. It was going to be a long winter this year, but as he listened to the lock click open, he smiled privately to himself. Mother Nature could roar as loud as she wanted, but nothing was going to distract him from his new prize. Of all winters to be house bound, this one was looking to be quite enjoyable.

 


	6. This is going to be impossible

Haytham knocked before going in, but then caught himself and chuckeld quietly.

What was the point of knocking? It's not like the boy had a choice.

Smiling and shaking his head, he slipped into the room and closed the door behind him, moving towards the bath.

Connor was still in it.

“I though you couldn't wait to get out.”

He waited, but there was no answer.

A darkness descended onto Haytham. Insolent boy.

“And things were going so well.” He said, striding towards the tub, before adding with a sarcastic note, “I really felt our relationship had made some progress.”

Making sure to avoid looking in his son's direction, he placed the evening's tack on the carpet by the fire, and only once he felt everything was perfectly set, turned to face the boy.

“Nevermind, there's plenty of time to -”

One glance at Connor made him immediatley stop.

“uh-”

Connor was fast asleep.

With the innocence and awkwardness of a child, he was peacefully resting. His head back, and mouth wide open, and his arms hanging over the edges askew.

Haytham was a at a loss for words.

He silently pulled himself a footstool and had a seat, still watching the child intently. Although he had to correct himself; this wasn't a child anymore. His boy was a grown man.

...But

In this moment, he seemed so....

Young...

Vulnerable.

All thoughts of needing rest began to waft away as he felt something stir deep inside him. It was like seeing Connor with new eyes. No longer seeing the Assassin, the trained killer, but instead seeing the boy. The lost boy.

An uncomfortable pull and a muddle of emotions was now coursing through him. He was suprised at how much it bothered him that he hadn't been able to be more present in his son's life. He began to wonder if -

SPLASH!

A wave of bathwater came hurtling towards Haytham.

“LET ME GO!” came Connor's booming voice, as he suddenly woke from a dream, sitting bolt upright, arms flailing and sending bathwater everywhere.

Connor blinked sleepily, as he took in his surroundings, slowly remembering where he was.

Meanwhile, Haytham sat by the edge of the tub, drenched. All thoughts of fatherhood now abruptly pushed out of his mind.

Insolent boy.

As memory slowly came back to Connor, the full embarrasement of the situation came rushing in as well.

“I was just getting out.” He hurriedly explained. “I was on my way out when...when...uh...”

He had no idea what to use as an excuse. He quickly glanced at the book by the side of the bed.

“I started reading.”

He knew it was a poor excuse, but it was all he could think of on the spot.

Drenched, Haytham pulled off his wet frock, and reached for a blanket. He followed Connor's glance and saw the book by the side of the tub.

“Brushing up on your spanish?” He said, rolling his eyes, while wrapping the blanket around himself.

Connor looked down at the book.

“Wha-?” he began. But Haytham interupted.

“That book,” he said, nodding towards it. “It's in Spanish. It's a book on regional cutoms of Spain.”

The more his father spoke, the more Connor's face flushed, as the full embarrasment of what had happened was sinking in.

“You-, You know Spanish?” he studdered.

“I am fluent in it.” Haytham explained, the business like sharpness now back in his voice. “I could pass as a local.”

“Now,” he indicated the stool in front of him. “Come here and have a seat.”

Connor stared at his father, who in turn, gazed back. Haytham was looking right through him, but wasn't challenging Connor's story. Haytham was giving him a gift. He was giving him an opportunity to simply move forward. He would be a fool not to take it.

Opting to take advantage of this rare opportunity to experience his father's mercy, Connor began to gingerly heave himself out of the tub. As he pulled out of the water, the wave of pain returned and he hissed from the rush.

“Are you quite alright?” Haytham asked.

“Yes,” Connor winced but kept going.

“No your not.” He jumped up to go by his son's side.

Putting his hands gently on either side of his son's hips, he steadyied the young man. Immediatley Connor pulled away.

“Really?” Came Haytham's voice, exhasperated. “You want to start struggling against me once more?”

But now standing in the tub, Connor was much taller then Haytham. He looked down at his father, only now taking in his age; his slightly weaker frame then his own. His eyes shifted to his father's face eyeing him dangerously, sizing him up.

The momentary shift in his son's eyes was all Haytham needed. He met the boy's eyes head on to challenge any naive ideas that may be floating in his simple mind.

“Boy. You seem to not have noticed my thumb against your side.” His eyes turned predatorial. “I have no problem plunging it into your wound if I feel it will subdue you.”

Haytham was growing tired of this repetitive game now. It was time to end this.

Both men stood, eyeing each other silently, waiting for the other to make a first move.

Haytham's eyes were boreing into the boy's. If their respective places in the pack had to be established tonight, then so be it. But Connor was quickly going to find out, he belonged at the bottom.

Both men stood immobile. The tension in the room steadily climbing as Connor's shoulders began to tense. Haytham glared back at his son, rubbing his thumb into Connor's skin, teasing the wound and causing the young native's breath to hitch.

As another achingly long minute passed, Connor shifted his weight closer to Haytham, adjusting his position and in response, his father smiled, eyes still glittering dangerously.

Confused, Connor held his gaze, but cocked his head to the side, about to say something venemous, when he was suddenly interupted by a rush of pain.

“AHHHH!” he screamed, his eyes rolling back into his head in pain.

Haytham, had finaly lost his patience, and was now digging his fingers mercilessly into the skin below the wound and pressing upwards, not enought to reopen the wound, but enough to cripple the boy and infom him of his place.

The edges of Connor's vision went black as tears of pain rolled down his face. The pain was too much, and soon he was falling to his knees, splashing back into the bath and landing in a heap, clutching the edge of the tub and shaking.

Releasing the wound, Haytham lowered himself down to his level, all the while keeping his hands along the boy's sides.

Connor's head was hanging down as he panted, face twisted in pain.

Haytham leaned in, bringing his face to only an inch away from his son's.

“Enough?” he said, barely a whisper.

Connor's face was streaked with tears and a small whimper was escaping his lips with every breath.

“Enough.” he breathed, nodding his head quickly.

Keeping the one hand hovering over the wound, his father slowly raised the other to gently cup the side of Connor's face in his hands.

Still trembling, Connor avoided his father's eyes as he allowed his face to be genty pushed upwards to face him.

“Good.” his voice was calm and steady. “You are quite unwell and it will take a while for you to get back on you feet. You understand that, do you not?”

Connor's face was still being held barely inches away from his father's, but he nodded gently into his hand.

“Then you also understand that these little games of yours must end. Hm?” He held the boy's gaze and leaned in a little closer bringing his voice back down to a whisper. “Because that also means you will be staying in my care and hospitality for quite a while.”

Haytham eyed him carefully, waiting for a reaction before adding, “and you wouldn't want to be a rude guest. Would you?”

Connor stared balefully into his father's face. A rush of thoughts and emotions were clouding his mind. What was he to do? He had no choice really. Where else would he go? He could barely stand, let alone fight, and every soldier in New York was currently searching to shoot him down on sight.

He had no where else to go.

He nodded his consent, an unwelcome wave of fear, washing over him. What was he consenting to? Beside his loss of freedom. Besides becoming his father's new pet?

He would have to tread carefully in this house...

 

 

With his son's consent, Haytham immediatley leaned back, satisfied and busied himself to change the mood.

“Excellent,” his tone had now flipped to warm and jovial.

Connor jumped, confused at the sudden change of pace.

“Time to get out of the bath.”

Haytham stood up, smiling and extending a hand down to his son.

Connor looked up at him quietly, still unsure, but nodded, reaching out to take his hand.

With much help from his father, Connor struggled back to his feet, getting out of the bath obediently this time, and struggling towards the fire to perch himself onto the stool. Naked and hunched over, Connor stared into the hearth, as Haytham came up behind him to wrap a drying cloth around him.

Connor glanced over his shoulder to give a quick nodd of gratitude and pulled it tighter around himself.

“I've brought us a little nightcap before bed.” Haytham said as he busied himself, setting out the tray of cheese and meat on the ground and pouring two large helpings of brandy. He reached out to Connor to hand him a glass and held out his own.

“To your health.” A teasing smile spread accross his face as he watched his son.

Connor stared back at his father blankly, before deciding he was simply too tired to care, and raised his glass to cheer.

He swirled the amber liquid around, watching Haytham take a long swig of his own and leaning back into one of the armchairs to finaly close his eyes with a sigh.

Connor had beer before, but never this. Glancing back at his father, to make sure his eyes were still closed, he leaned his nose into the glass to get a whif and quickly pulled back. It was a much heavier smell then beer and alost seemed to burn his nose. He eyed it carefully.

At least it wasn't lavender.

He took a small sip. A gentle burn washed down his throat, but it wasn't all horrible. It was a heavy flavour, but it made his insides feel....warmer? Was that possible?

He took a heavyer swig and felt the amber liquid warm all his insides as it slid through him. He liked it.

Soon the glass was empty and a dreamlike lightheadedness was falling over him. He suddenly felt foggy and so tired. All he wanted was to sleep now. He could barely keep his eyes open.

 

 

With one eye barely open, Haytham secretly watched his son finish his glass and begin to fall asleep. The brandy was doing it's job. As the boy's eyes began to flutter, Haytham look a long swig of his own glass, finishing it off, and got up to wrap his arms around his son's shoulders.

He leaned into him, whispering in his ear “come on. Time for bed.”

Connor grunted and his eyes fluttered open again, trying to shake the sleep from himself, but couldn't. The dozy haze of the brandy owned him now.

He felt arms pulling him upward, and he hazily obeyed, struggling painfully to his feet. He felt the arms urge him forward, as he hobbled along, the pain less sharp then he remembered, before being seated into a bed.

Feeling the warm softness under him, he instictively lay down, gratefully mumbling a thank you as his head hit the pillow. His last memory, was of a pair of hands wrapping the covers around and his father's voice.

“Goodnight Connor. Welcome to the Kenway House.”

 

 

Haytham took a step back from his bed to observe his son for a moment.

The boy was out cold.

Finaly. Some peace.

He walked back to fireplace and poured himself a bit more brandy, taking a seat back into his armchair and staring into the fire. Reflecting on the evening's events, he heaved a sigh and leaned back into the velvet of the chair.

Connor's wounds were quite grave. If the boy hadn't made it to him as quickly as he did, Haytham wondered if he would have even survived.

He sipped at his brandy and leaned forward, massaging between his eyes, along the bridge of his nose.

It was going to take a while for his wounds to heal. On the surface, he may be alright within a couple weeks, but that gash on his side, was deep. The internal wounds would take months to be alright.

The true reality suddenly dawned on him. The boy was going to have to stay with him for months.

How on earth were they going to survive? Tonight had been exhausting enough...

He finished off his brandy and prepared himself for bed. Standing by the bedside, he undressed and put on a bed shirt, all the while watching Connor's form, on the other side of the bed, rising and falling with each deep breath.

Asleep, the boy was more tolerable. It was the long hours of the day, that worried Haytham.

He slipped into bed, making sure not the wake the boy, taking one last glance at him over his shoulder, before blowing out the bedside lamp.

Submerged in darkness, with only the faint glow of the fire, he closed his eyes and listened to his son's quiet breathing as sleep slowly came over him.

His last memory, before sleep claimed him, was of a sudden jolting snore from Connor.

This was going to be impossible.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> WOW!!! That took me forever to finish! Thank you so much to every single person who read this and has been following and patiently waiting for me to update! I'm a very slow writer and I can't believe how patient you have been!
> 
> This is only the end of Part 1. I am definitely going to continue with this pairing. I originally started this just for fun to see where it would go, but thanks to all your beautiful comments and support I just felt so inspired to keep going and keep developing other story lines with them. So suddenly I've got a lot more material to write and post!
> 
> I've had so much fun with this story. I hope you also enjoyed it. Already starting to write Part 2!


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